Logs:Old and Jaded
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| RL Date: 30 January, 2016 |
| Who: Mirinda, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Mirinda and N'rov take a walk. |
| Where: Lake Shore, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 18, Month 12, Turn 39 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Baliol/Mentions, Blume/Mentions, Cyrek/Mentions, Dahlia/Mentions, Farideh/Mentions, Jocelyn/Mentions, Ninwayzan/Mentions, Tavish/Mentions |
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| Every now and again, as they walk, N'rov has been squinting one-eyed at the sky; now he breaks off-topic to say in so many words, "No snow, and it's almost Turnover. I'm surprised we're not hip-deep in the stuff, Mirinda; is that your doing?" "Why, yes, I am the reason Monaco is tropical-- was. If the weather changes down there now..." is Mirinda's teasing reply, she who plainly has no complaints about the continued temperate weather. Though: "I'm absolutely confident that you'll get your snow by turnover. I confidently predict both snow and baby dragons in the next five-or-so weeks; you can count on it." "'My' snow, as though I want some," N'rov grandly scoffs. "Snow and baby dragons? You're living dangerously. Though, speaking of which; how amenable would you say the bakers would be to our stealing one of theirs? I'm thinking of the latest apprentice; asked a few questions and it turns out his father rides at Igen. And he hasn't been a baker all that long, so they'd lose less of an investment." Mirinda turns her gaze to consider N'rov, serious at first and then abruptly less so. "It'll be your fault, for watching out for it. I am actually quite enjoying this weather we've got at the moment-- it's too cold for my blood, of course, but the skies are spectacular in their blueness." Evidently she's not too concerned about the bakers, given the cheerfulness of all of that; smoothly, "I don't imagine it hurts to ask, though I'll not take him if his journeyman is unwilling. We could use the bodies, certainly." N'rov has to grin at her, at that, and look up at the sky one more time... though not all squint-eyed, this time, rather a show of hand-to-temple amazement. No snow. No journeyman-shaped impediments, even in the form of clouds. "Deal," he turns back to her with satisfaction. "Funny how, when it's Search time, everyone of that age has a certain shine to them." There's a pause, obscurely reluctant; in the end he risks her not-seriousness to say with apparent ease, "I was careful to not hint in that direction to our visiting weyrwoman. How did you find her?" "Mm," says Mirinda, tipping her head towards in N'rov in a gesture of acknowledgement; that's for the shine part. For the rest? Her lips purse. "That's one thing I would prefer not to spread around; that we're down on numbers for it. I'd rather not have the show of weakness. I liked her, though." And for that, abruptly, she seems more pleased. "I've liked both of the High Reachian weyrwomen I've met lately, and that's a refreshing change-- that the past might remain the past. That I might reach beyond it, if you know what I mean. She's young, though." N'rov's nod accedes; "It's not a vulnerability I mind showing," but he'll hold by her wish regardless. "I suppose she is," he says slowly. "Eager? Willing? I like that she, and Dee for that matter," perhaps he's thinking of her instead of 'Dahlia,' "aren't... jaded, it seems like. Aware of consequences but it's not like whatever someone says slips off them. I'd like it if none of you had to wear masks so much." "Southern knows. Monaco knows." Others, Mirinda seems to imply, wryly, have probably guessed. That's too many already. "Masks are part and parcel of being a weyrwoman, in my experience. Jocelyn, the other High Reachian, she... it was interesting. The balance between awareness and not. Experience and not. Masks and not. Give all of them five turns, and they'll all..." She breaks off. "Somewhere along the way I stopped being a member of the younger generation of goldriders, and the reminder can be jarring. It shouldn't be; I've been at this half my life. Even so." That realization has N'rov considering her, her expression and the way the sunlight falls on her face. "Five Turns, that's how much Zai's older than Vhaeryth," is more of a distraction than anything. "Almost," even more so. "Are you anticipating being ancient and retired, floating around on your litter carried about by spritely youths?" His gaze is steady, a small smile curling up the edges of his mouth. Mirinda makes a face, albeit a cheerful one. "No," she says. "No, not like that. I may never had much to do with the holds at Monaco-- my duties were always inwards-focusing-- but still: I've been a leader and manager of people for most of their lives. I'm supposed to be the mentor, knowing exactly what is to be done." N'rov's nod is slow, and then he looks outward, over the lake, before turning in to her again. "'Every shell hardens,'" he says without giving it the stentorian ring he could, "'Every shell cracks, every hatchling should spread her wings.' Like that?" "Something like that," says Mirinda, complete with a low laugh. "In any case, I like that they're not jaded, yet. It's inevitable, and you can watch the process happen in front of your eyes in a lot of cases, but... I like it. I think you lose something, when all your leaders have grown up; oh, everyone becomes more effective as they grow up, but there's also that... well. It's a pity that infusion of youth never lasts for long." "We have to grow up and focus," N'rov says rather wryly, "Instead of going every which way. Or maybe it's focus broadly, instead of chasing down whatever one's minded to... But, speaking of. I had dinner with our favorite steward the other night; nothing incredibly new on Cyrek yet, but we'll see what happens when everything thaws. Not to mention freezes first," this with a tip of his head to Mirinda, the snow-predictor. "I've a mind to set A'sran to transport Tavish now and again, and Ka'ge, Baliol. Ka'ge isn't exactly sedate, but I expect Baliol will like that." The holds; Mirinda seems mildly less-than-thrilled, though she often does: foreign policy is not her strong point. "Replacing so many holders at once," she says with a sigh; repeats with a sigh, really, because it has certainly come up before, "is a terrible pain. Let's never do this again. But that seems like a reasonable way to use your bronzeriders. They'll like it, I'm sure." The bronzeriders? The Lords? "I wish Cyrek were less..." "There go my plans for a massacre next seven," N'rov deadpans, but then he's nodding. "I'd have liked it, for certain. There's a lot you can look into, that way." 'Look into.' "Cyrek. Yes. It can be difficult to not take sides, at least not overtly." "I'd kill you," retorts Mirinda, because evidently dead weyrleaders is less of a bother than dead lord holders; allegedly, anyway. "Mm. I'm well aware that our system is far from perfect, that the Impression of a dragon of a particular hue is not necessarily better than being born into the right family, but..." But. "Bloodthirsty wench," N'rov says, smiling down at her quite as though Mirinda gets that appellation on a regular basis. Or any basis. "But. Yes. The crafts, at least, have some visible measure of skill, even if it's only political. Still, it can't be said that theirs are nearly as dramatic as ours." His grin is quick, but his continuation is light. "Speaking of drama, and upcoming snows... and, no, I don't actually have a checklist: what would you think of stealing a lockable room or two in the caverns, toss in a couple old couches and a fellow with some beer and goods? Dice is Dice, but it's a pain to get to when you don't ride green; the place up by the solarium isn't just a drop-by; and the thing about the Fountain is the price. Well: fancy and price." Another weyrwoman might add 'or as fun' to the merits of flights over battles of successful; Mirinda is not that weyrwoman. Of N'rov's idea, however: "I'm not opposed to the idea. But is it wise, at the moment, when we're short of things? A lounge, absolutely. Perhaps we could do that much, and consider... more commercial aspects come spring, when we have a better idea of our situation?" "Fair enough," N'rov agrees. "Not like there's not the night hearth, but it's not..." his shrug is brief. "A place to be there. You know? Somewhere you won't be imperiling some little kid's eyes or ears. If we could stick in a keg of the same sort of beer we have for meals, so much the better, but I get waiting on that too." "It's different," agrees Mirinda. "Come on-- I'm getting cold. Why don't you raise the idea with Blume and see what she thinks? Your idea, so you can take ownership of it. I'm not saying 'no' only... well, let's see, all right?" "What? I thought you were supposed to be my go-between!" N'rov claims. "She'll put me through my paces!" His is currently lengthening if not quite quickening, though, to get her warm inside. |
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